


Swordfights and Snow

by Ramasi



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-27
Updated: 2011-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-28 06:19:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/304670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ramasi/pseuds/Ramasi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a clearing, in winter, Gwen, Merlin, and Lancelot practice their swordsmanship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swordfights and Snow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [glinda-penguin](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=glinda-penguin).



Step. Parry. Step. Thrust, and parry, and hold, hold, even as her whole arm vibrates with the shock of the last blow; hold, until at last Lancelot steps back, raises his sword in a sign of respect, goes, once again, into position. She takes advantage of the break to wipe the sweat from her forehead. It's deep winter, snow crunches under their feet with every step, yet she's hot, a prickling, electrifying heat where she feels every last ounce of her own body with something close to pain.

Their eyes meet over the small distance, careful, asserting, a hard, solid line that ties them to each other. For this alone, if there is never any need for her to learn these skills, she's glad they choose to do this. Else this would have been a part of him that she can never know and be part of, she a distant, beloved lady on a throne (he saw her as such when she was a seamstress) and he her knight (and she saw him as such when he was a fraud), his daily life as a warrior something beyond her reach and –

He holds back on her, of course, still, though they're so much better now than when they started. However, she knows well that he can be more than hard and quick like now: underhand and sneaky as he was during his fight with prince Arthur, for to be a knight of stories, a noble protector, you need to win your fights, no matter how. These, now, are just the mechanics, which she's always known but never practiced to the last, until her arm arches and beyond. At first he said no, shocked by the thought of raising his sword to her, even in play. I'll show you every move you need, but don't ask _me_ to –

But she doesn't need that instruction; she has a brother who is a swordsman as good as any knight; she has the lady Morgana, she has Merlin, she knows every secret of every blade in her father's forge; she needs _this_ , the daily physical act, step, thrust, parry, white clouds collecting in front of her mouth and her steps heavy in the snow. Because when it comes down to it she might flee when he begs her to, but she will turn back if, behind her, she sees him threatening to fall. She won't let him go again.

Merlin said nothing all throughout their argument about it; he stood there smiling, at ease, three swords in his hands, waiting. He's waiting now, at the edge of their clearing, third sword in hand, watching their every move as they begin their dance again, silent on the sidelines. But now and then, Gwen catches sight of him from the corners of her eyes, and she knows Lancelot does as well, and the lines that tie them as their eyes remain locked extend beyond their fight, dragging him in. She looks at Merlin, at the end, when, this time, she falls under the force of the pressure of Lancelot's sword interlocked with hers; its point comes to hover somewhere by her neck.

Merlin walks forwards the moment their eyes meet, and he's the one who helps her up when Lancelot steps back, a little out of breath and vaguely worried still.

She smiles at Merlin. Their own fights lack the intensity of the ones she has with Lancelot, even though, their skills more closely matched, they go to their limits both. She's not sure why that is; there is something buried in the back of Merlin's eyes, a strange twinkling that seems to say _we're playing_ , and they _are_. Sometimes she's laughing at the end of it, even as her arm and his cheek are bleeding and Lancelot is there with a warm, wet cloth and instructions, and a half-hearted, affectionate frown that they have to kiss away.

"Thanks," she tells Merlin as he hauls her up.

"My turn," he answers, and turns to Lancelot, questioning.

The knight nods, and Gwen moves to the sidelines, grateful for the respite. She loves watching them almost as much as she loves fighting them, Merlin's movements twitchy and clumsy-looking almost, and lightning-fast and precise, Lancelot's harsh and clear as water. She breathes onto her ice-cold hands and watches them move through the clearing; Merlin gives way almost with every step, lets himself be chased back towards the trees but catches every blow, and Lancelot has to reach to catch the sudden counterattack when it comes, low in the knees.

Lancelot sort of wins this one as well, but they're used to that. Merlin grins at him as they both lower their sword, and steps forward, almost touching Lancelot; once again his eyes search hers, over Lancelot's shoulder, and she comes towards them at once.

"Thank you," she tells Lancelot when she's standing right behind him, breathes into his ear.

"No." He turns, takes her hand, febrile, like he's still a little surprised that she's here, that they're both here. "No, I'm glad." He raises her hand to his lips, but the way he kisses her fingers is not very courtly, wet and messy, and the way Merlin is smiling, by his side, tells her that he too is thinking that if it were summer they might be rolling in the grass by now.

"We should go home," Merlin says, and then "ow," as he bumps his shoulder against Lancelot's; the knight's eyes move from her to him, searching. "I'm fine," Merlin adds, at the look he receives. "I just need some salve."

There's something odd between the two of, sometimes, when they look at each other, something that almost locks her out. She's not stupid; she knows they keep secrets from her; but she trusts them both enough not to mind.

"I've had worse," Merlin adds, with a small tilt of the lips, and they both know he's speaking of Arthur.

"Come on, then," Lancelot says, but they don't move right away.

Instead they stand as they are; the cold sweeps through her, worse with the sweat from before, cooling her skin, but she feels no hurry as Lancelot still holds her hand in his left, sword in his right, with Merlin by his side, dishevelled and lovely. The forest is quiet and peaceful around them. There will be warmth enough later, when they huddle around her fireplace and share freshly baked bread and body warmth, and maybe she'll stupidly fall asleep on the hard floor again, draped in nothing but a warm blanked, and all their legs so messily entangled that she'll feel like hers have been rearranged slightly and wrongly sideways for the whole next day.


End file.
